Histories
by steelneena
Summary: Sara never saw Neal's new passport, and now, only a couple weeks later, Neal and Mozzie have cleared out successfully, and able to live the life of freedom that both have so desperately fought for. But Peter follows the trail, enraged. AU.
1. Chapter 1

Chapter 1

Victor Moreau grinned, stepping off the private plane with his friend, Bob. It was a smirk, half there, half gone already. The biggest con of his life, and he was reveling in it. For now. He was… not happy, rather, ecstatic. Partially. Sara was behind him, now. He'd never see her again, with some luck. And Elizabeth. And…Peter.

Never again. But he could hardly dwell on the past. His whole life was ahead of him. Everything that he had ever wanted. Never having to look behind him again, never ever having to worry that his identity would come up false. The one thing he had to worry about would be pictures of himself. Not an issue he couldn't handle.

_Believe the lie, Victor. Believe the lie, and become the lie. And live forever. _

The smile grew. His brown eyes twinkled. A necessary precaution. He'd get over it. Eventually.

"Well, let's go, Vic, come on, we gotta ditch the plane and get our loot in the truck!"

"Got it, Robbie, got it," he replied as he sauntered over to the truck.

Freedom was a transcending experience, one that Victor was sure he'd never tire of.

...NC

It had been two hours since Sara had called him at home, obviously distraut, and Peter was already beating himself up. Seven cases Neal had gone without his anklet and 3 with, and then, on the last one, he up and disappeared. Gone. No trace. The only thing left was his art and his CI badge. It lay on the dining room table, looking abandoned and forlorn.

_No one changes over night._ Peter scoffed at his own stupidity. _Maybe, no one changes at all. _

"Diana, pull all of Caffrey's known aliases - George Devore, George Danvery, Nicolas Halden, Steve Tabernacle, Gary Rydel - look for anything connected to him, and anyone connected to him. Cross reference everything we know about him now that we didn't before. We know that he's gone completely to ground. His dad was a dirty cop, who died when he was two. High school dropout. Trained to be a cop. Look for reports.

"From there I want an estimate of his age. We're looking at late seventies to early eighties for his birth year, or specifically 1977 if we trust what we have on him. Look for a middle school second graders roster - the name Brittany Nicole. Any boy with Blue eyes and brown hair with a gap in his teeth. First came to New York City in his early twenties. I want _everything_ and I mean everything, cross referenced. Even though he let it slip, it could still be useful.

"Mozzie too, if that's even possible. I will find them," Peter sighed. Two hours earlier, he had received Sara's phone call, and promptly dialed Neal's number, as El had done the same with Mozzie. Both numbers were disconnected.

"Talk to June, see if she knows anything. Turn this place over completely. I want tracking data on the anklet from the first week after the warehouse explosion till today. All of it. Now!" Peter put his hand to his head, the migraine already beginning. He still was having trouble fully believing the situation. He'd been conned. Conned by his partner, his friend. His own damn family.

"We are going to find this cocky bastard!"

Diana sighed. Peter was already in chase mode. Chasing a man that had become a close friend, and confident. Someone that Peter had trusted (almost) implicitly. At least sometimes. And it had only taken a couple hours to shatter everything that Peter had worked so hard for. The trust that had grown between Peter and Neal had been fragile, but precious. Somehow, Diana knew that this time, it was permanently damaged. And that was a real shame.

Another eight hours later, Peter was home. All of Mozzie's known hideouts had been turned over, and anyone he or Neal had been in contact with had been pulled. There was still no trace. The page that had survived from the ship's manifest - both the only existing copy and the original - were missing as well. The clean-up team was still combing over Neal's apartment when Diana had forced him to return home to El, still simmering in the rage of betrayal.

Elizabeth smiled at him sympathetically when he came in the door and promptly flopped down on the couch, exhausted, hurt and…

"Honey, you knew that Neal was still who he had always been. He can't resist it. He revels in it. It's a thrill for him. Nothing more, and nothing less. You told me what he said, about the risk being like a drug, an addiction," Elizabeth sighed. "Let's face it honey, Neal is an addict. We tried to change him, and well, it didn't work. Maybe, maybe it just wasn't meant to be, sweetie," She reached out a hand, but Peter stood up, anger returned. All worry he had been feeling for Neal - even for just a moment- had dissipated.

"God damn it, El! He did it. He actually did it! I was such a fool to trust him, even in the slightest! I-"

"You wanted to," Elizabeth had stood up, and placed a reassuring hand on her husband's back. "We all did. We all fell for it. But maybe he wasn't so far away from changing. Maybe there was something that set him back. It really doesn't surprise me, Peter. Neal was who he was, and we should have expected it. We just didn't want to," Peter turned to his wife, wishing against all hope that she would stop waxing philosophical.

"Maybe… maybe it's better this way. But I know that you're hurt, honey, he betrayed all of our trust. Even mine. You know Neal. He can't resist the spotlight. Something will turn up. You know it. He won't be able to resist. It'll take a while, but he'll surface," She smirked, despite herself. "Under one name or another,"

...NC

"Wyoming," Victor deadpanned as he looked out at the new ranch that he and Bob would be sharing until, according to Bob, 'further notice'. "This really redefines the meaning of 'Gone to Ground', Robbie," Victor said with a smile in his eyes.

"Yes, well, Necessity is a mother…they won't find us out here. No one will,"

Curiosity peaked; Victor cocked his head to the side. "The damn thing is abandoned, Robbie. Where the hell did you find this place?" Robbie turned to look at him, head angled upward, so the glance ran down his nose. Curse his height issues….

"Really, mon frère?" Robbie sighed at the 'tell me' look in Vic's eyes. "Craigslist," he shot out quickly. "It's been on there a while. Did some searching. Turns out the guy who was trying to sell it died, and Craigslist never bothered to take it off the page. No other family. I monitor the page, and we clear out in two years. I have another place in case we need to clear out sooner. Safe to go. Every other month we fence some random article from our collection, at random non consequential points and then when our fortune is made, we head out to wherever we want to go. Our lives are our own to live. We did it. In the truest sense, freedom cannot be bestowed; it must be achieved,"

"FDR, haven't heard you quote him before," Neal raised an eyebrow, faking a serious interest, before chuckling.

"I was saving it. Now seemed like just the right time,"

Hours later, they sat on the porch, a bottle of wine and two glasses between them, celebrating their final victory over the constraints of the law.

...NC

"Jones, Diana, what do you got?" Peter asked brusquely, as he walked into the office two days later. Diana and Jones had been waiting for him in the conference room, files open and ready, multiple laptops running, all with pages regarding the missing felon that had become a regular in the office. Before everything had happened, Peter had been content (sort of) to let Neal's past lie. But now that he had double crossed everything that Peter had ever believed in, nothing was sacred. Diana spoke up.

"We cross referenced cops with kids who were two years old in the early eighties throughout the state of New York, just to start, and then did a run through of the dirty ones, then looked for deaths in that time era. One hit,"

Peter looked up, grimly. "Good work you two, what did we get?" Diana bit her lip, and Jones sighed.

"The name of the family was non-disclosed, but we know that the child was a boy, and an only child. The family lives in Jefferson Valley. That's all we know." As Peter was about to interject, Jones spoke up.

"But, we found out that the son went to Thomas Jefferson Elementary. Mid-sized school, even then. Three second grade classes were in session in 1984. He had to be in one of them. So we also checked the data base for a girl with the first name Brittany-Nicole. We found her there, in that year. Brittany-Nicole Mueller,"

Peter looked back and forth between his two agents. "And…" he prodded. Diana smirked, and pulled a hardcover book from her pile.

"We had them pick up a couple year books. Now all we have to do is find Neal in here, amongst about eighty other second graders," Peter grinned wryly.

"Oh joy. Well, let's get started. I wonder whether he had that patented Caffrey smile when he was seven," he quipped. "And don't forget the gap in his teeth,"

"Yeah," Jones replied, "Just like every other second grader that year, and every year,"

"Boss, what makes you think that Neal Caffrey is just another alias we never learned about?" Diana asked, tentatively.

"Because I never could find anything on him before his 18th birthday. Something was missing, and all we needed was for Neal to fill in the missing pieces. Inadvertently, he'll be his own undoing. He got too close, and then decided to pull out. Facts like this were slipped without thought. We can use anything. He just didn't realize it,'

"Are you sure, boss?"

"Positive,"

It took another half hour of looking and comparing before Peter realized that they were looking in the wrong spot. "Diana, Jones, flip to page thirty. Tell me what you see," The look on Peter's face was reminiscent of the days before he had caught Neal.

"I see a page dedicated to award winners," Jones stated simply. "What are we supposed to see?"

It took a moment, but Diana spoke up. "Art awards. Matthew DeKay. Second Grade. Won State at the Young Art Prodigies contest for his Degas inspired painting, Mother at Dawn,"

"And this is the picture of Matthew DeKay - missing a tooth, dark hair, and light eyes. I'd say we have our boy. Let's go check this out," While it didn't help the immediate case against Caffrey, figuring out who he was, was a personal victory for Peter. Neal would never know what hit him.

...NC

White Collar Fanfiction! I've been wanting to write it forever, but never was really inspired. Now I finally have been. This is it. This take place as if the end of 'Scott Free' never happened. Sara never saw the passport. Also, based on the episode previous to Scott Free, I think we can all safely assume that no one but Neal knows his real name. Neal is just another name that he created for himself. Spoilers through season three. I have chapter two written, and will post it soon.

liebedero


	2. Chapter 2

Chapter 2

It didn't take too long to find the widowed Mrs. Susan DeKay, and when they did, Peter didn't waste any time in driving to her house, and knocking on her door, Diana in tow. The door opened and facing them was a slight woman with brown hair, and green eyes, glasses sitting on the bridge of her nose. Inside, a dog barked.

"Can I help you?" She inquired, a puzzled look gracing her chiseled features, very striking and yet elegant. Peter was certain he knew where Neal's natural good looks came from.

"Susan DeKay?" He questioned in an official tone, while pulling out his badge. "I'm Special Agent Peter Burke, and this is Agent Barrigain. We have some questions for you regarding a recent disappearance that we are looking into. We think that you might be able to help us,"

"I don't know why you are asking me, but if I can help, I most certainly will. Please come in," Susan held open the door, and let both agents in, and offered each a seat before taking one herself. "Now what is this about?" the curiosity in her features was evident.

"We're currently involved in a man hunt for an internationally known con-man forger and art thief, who goes by the name Neal Caffrey. He has several other aliases, but this one is his most prominent. He is suspected in at least 12 felonies but was only convicted of bond forgery. Until recently he was my partner through a work release programme, with a monitoring anklet. We were in the beginning of the third of four years he would be required to work as my CI in White Collar Crimes,"

"Until recently?" Peter opened his mouth to retort, but Susan kept talking. "We live in small town, and I almost never go into the city. What do you think I know?"

"Mrs. DeKay," Diana took up the conversation, "Caffrey is the best at what he does. Various aliases help someone like him to disappear. We think that the name we know him by, Neal Caffrey, is just another, albeit very, very good, alias. We have no information on him prior to 1995. We think, based on things he let slip that he may have lived here, in Jefferson Valley. You might even have known him as a child. We just need you to confirm a few things for us. Can you do that?"

Susan DeKay blinked. "Um, yes of course,"

"Susan," Peter began, "Do you know anyone in this town whose husband was a cop? He would have died in eighty-four…?" She merely nodded. "Caffrey let slip that his father was a cop, who died when he was two. Did this woman have a son, who would have been the appropriate age when her husband was killed?"

Susan DeKay was shaking her head, mouth open, and eyes wide. Her breathing had risen, and she was visibly shaking. "Mrs. DeKay, we realize that these might be highly personal questions, but we really need you to stay with us and answer all of our questions as best as you can, do you think you can do that?" Diana asked, putting her hand over Susan's. She only nodded.

Diana pulled the yearbook out from under her arm, and flipped to the page that held all the young and smiling faces from '84, and pointed to Matthew DeKay's picture. "Can you identify this boy?"

Susan nodded. "We linked our con man to this year book through the name Brittany-Nicole. He said that she didn't like him because he had a gap in his teeth," Peter stated. Immediately Susan shook her head and leaned back in her chair, looking anywhere but the yearbook before her.

"It isn't possible. No. He can't be. It… it… isn't possible…. Can't be…" she stuttered. Diana locked eyes with her concernedly.

"What isn't possible, Mrs. DeKay?"

"N-n-nothing," she replied quietly.

"Susan, if you could, would it possible for you to show us the most recent photograph you have of your son?" Peter asked kindly, and as nicely as possible. Susan stood and walked to the wall behind them. It was a wall of books, self upon shelf. And at the farthest corner, she lifted a photo album clearly labeled "MATT", and sat back down, and opened to the middle.

"This was the summer of his 17th. We were grilling out," she stated in a faraway voice. Diana took the album from her and examined the photo, Peter looking on as well. There was no mistaking the sparkling blue eyes, and the wide smile or the wavy dark brown hair.

"Susan, this is the most recent photo you have of your son?"

"Yes,"

"Why?" his question sounded very strained, even to Peter's own ears.

"Because my son died a week later," A single tear leaked from the corner of Susan's eye, and Peter immediately felt horrible. Susan had taken the album back and turned to the next page, before handing it over again.

It was Matt DeKay's Obituary. "He would have turned eighteen that November. They found the car in Lake Mohegan. It wasn't too far from his school, Lakeland High. A lot of his friends went to the lake to relax. He drove it off the dock. I…"

"Mrs. DeKay, we don't want to pressure you, but it is essential that you tell us the circumstances surrounding your son's death. Take your time,"

Susan bit her lower lip, as the tears threatened to well over. "Mattie, he was so smart. So intelligent. They told me that I had a genius. His IQ was 156. I thought I knew what I was dealing with. When his dad died, he was only two. I wasn't thinking. Oh, I told him that his daddy was a real hero. A real man. The night that Mattie… we had an argument. He wanted to drop out and go into training as a cop. He had already been in the junior trainee programme, but wanted to take it on completely. I wanted him to go to college, get a degree, he was in line for a scholarship. Art! He was already rivaling some masters… So, So I…So I told him what I couldn't when he was two. I-I..I told him how his father was dirty, had been involved in mob dealings, was being bribed, and received payoffs. He… Mattie, he blew up in my face. He was… devastated… the things that I told him about his father…Everything was true. I even gave him proof, written proof. Matt was…overwhelmed, I didn't know what he was going to do… I ….I thought he just needed to cool off…I… The next thing I heard was that they found his car in the lake… there was… a hole…. In the windshield… and blood…they said he… flew through the windshield… before it hit the water…concussion was probable… he… they even found a body…I… it can't be….it was closed casket…I-I…"

The sobs wracked her body and she shook her head in her hands. Diana glanced over at Peter, who looked appropriately grim. And they waited. Several minutes later, Susan had calmed, and looked back up at the agents.

"We only have one other question for you, Mrs. DeKay. If your son were alive today, and you hadn't seen him in over a decade, would you be able to identify him?"

Susan nodded hesitantly as Diana laid the picture out on the table. It contained seven men, one of them known as Neal Caffrey. A police lineup that had found the FBI scrambling to keep up with the NYPD. Susan scanned it, looking at each face intently, pausing at the fifth man. "I…I-I… it can't be…"

"But it is. Mrs. DeKay," Peter stated as he pulled out another photo of Neal, "this is the same man as number five. His name is Neal Caffrey. Or so we thought. We had nothing on his life prior to his 18th birthday. Sometime between the time your son ran your car off a dock and into a lake, and the time that excellently forged bonds - that were supposed to be un-forgeable - began showing up, your son, Matthew DeKay became Neal Caffrey, eventually to be convicted felon. If it helps any, he's good at what he does," Peter stood.

"We will keep you updated, Mrs. DeKay. But before we leave, we need a picture of your son, preferably at age seventeen, so that we can verify facial recognition. We'll bring it back, don't worry," Diana said, with a reassuring smile, as she watched Susan DeKay's world fall to pieces.

...NC

"Facial recognition came back positive, El! How could he do that? He faked his own damn death! And there was a body, El. They found a body in the lake the day after he ran his car off that dock! Pure coincidence? El, what if he-"

" Come on Honey," Elizabeth comforted her husband, holding him in her embrace. "He was seventeen when he did what he did. He was confused and scared. And, while we both know that Neal is good with guns, he hates them. He has always been anti-violence. Neal's no killer honey. If he was, he wouldn't have been able to live with himself for so long. It takes a certain type of person to murder a man for no real reason. Neal isn't that kind of person,"

She sighed quietly. Everything they had known about Neal was being challenged by this case. Her husband's life had been ripped apart once more by Neal Caffrey. It almost seemed as though their lives revolved around him, and Elizabeth wasn't sure if she could handle it much longer. Before, Neal had been a trusted friend in her home. While he and Peter were working together, everything had been wonderful. She had looked on Neal with a motherly affection, and, even still, continued to. She just hoped that where ever he had run off to, he was safe, and being careful.

She would never forgive him for being an idiot. Not after everything he had put Peter through. "Maybe, it's time to give up the ghost, honey. Neal was always your sticking point. He always evaded you, till you found the one thing he cared about most. He won't fall for it again. Neal may be loyal to a fault, but he's smart. Let him go, honey. Let him go,"

...NC

"Peter," Diana called to her boss. "They found something at his apartment, they want you to check it out, it's down in evidence," he immediately turned on heel in the busy office and headed back to the elevator, wondering.

When he got to evidence, they were waiting for him. "Well?"

"There was a wall safe, and we checked it out. There were three things in there, all of them here for you to look over, as well as his CI badge,"

Peter looked down to the article on the table. The first thing was a scrap of paper, labeled PETER. Picking it up, he opened the bag and unfolded the sheet. Written on it were two random set of letters and numbers. Meaningless. The second item was a laptop. The report next to it read that The hard drive wiped save for a customized internet homepage, with nothing but the generic device programmes. No word documents, nothing the homepage on the internet browser; no other internet history.. It required a username and password.

Quickly, Peter entered both sets of numbers and letters into the spaces. The page came up as if it were a webcam. The view was an empty storage room. "Damn," he swore under his breath. He could only imagine what had been there before. So close and yet so far. And Neal just had to rub it in. The last item was the black fedora that Neal had worn on the first day they worked together as partners, just over two years previously.

The stoic FBI agent took a deep breath, turned and made his way back up to the White Collar Unit, Federal Bureau of Investigation.

...NC

Remember, we all work with pure hypotheticals…..So all locations and such are only from what I've researched….I also operate under the assumption that Neal couldn't just leave without leaving anything behind. It just isn't Neal. He gets too attached too quickly.  
>Oh, and yes, I admit to shamelessly merging Matt Bomer and Tim Dekay's names. So sue me. I don't own a damn thing! Enjoyment, Mr. Eastin, not profit! (And I hardly ever disclaim, but this show is worth it. Way worth it.)<p> 


	3. Chapter 3

Just a note, the section with Sara is best read to the sounds of Carrie Underwood's, Cowboy Casanova. Just go to you tube, and type in Cowboy Casanova Neal Caffrey the first option made by the beat on repeat. Excellent fanvid. And I don't like country, but this song works real well! (And it's a bit of homage to Matt Bomer's Texas Origins, in my opinion…) Also, I have the dreaded weekend of weddings coming up, so you're going to all have to wait for chapter 4. Sorry. Also, I realize that this is a bit of a filler( as is chapter four) but things pick up(finally) in Chapter 5. I just need to establish a base before anything can really move forward. Unfortunately, that means I hate writing it….

Chapter 3

Five Months Later:

"I'm sorry Burke, I just can't let you continue on this case," Hughes stated, in a 'matter of fact' manner. "It's gone on too long. I just can't let you continue to waste FBI funds chasing the con who got away," he pulled a grim line on his face, but looking at Peter's defiant expression, the old FBI agent softened. "I'm sorry, Peter. I know how much it means to you to try and catch him, if only for one last time. You were doing good with him, but there hasn't been any illicit activity linked to any of his aliases. There is just no good reason for me to let you keep on him,"

Hughes sighed. "Take a new case Peter. Let Caffrey go. He'll screw up eventually. They all do. Just, take a break. You're running yourself into the ground. For your own good, slow up,"

"Yes, sir," Peter shook his head, jaw clenched, as he left Hughes' office. _Damn Caffrey. Damn him. Damn him to hell._ Hell, he had almost rolled his eyes at a superior officer! That wasn't the man Peter knew himself to be. Calm. He needed to calm down, and needed to just breathe. In and out. Like El told him to, whenever he felt like he was about to blow a gasket and stroke out.

Caffrey was driving him insane. Maybe breaking on the case was a good idea. Maybe. _Since when did Neal become Caffrey again? _Peter asked himself. _Reality check, since the moment he turned on you. Damn, you need to relax, Burke. You got this. You can handle this. Just step back. _

Peter had never felt so out of self before. Everything with Neal was just too much. Hughes was right. He needed a new focus. A new case. Something. Anything…_to drive them out of hiding…_ No!

Peter sat, head in hands, at his desk, forlornly rubbing his eyes. Every thought was automatically rerouted back to finding Neal. He was thoroughly exhausted by all the efforts that he had made in the past five months. Pending investigation after the first week that Neal had fled, Peter had been expecting the worst.

But he had made it very clear to DOJ that he wanted nothing more than to catch Neal Caffrey, forger extraordinaire, and put him back in jail for parole violation, and, hopefully, possession of illegal antiquities. Statute of limitations on art theft was six years, and if he didn't find Neal and the 'little guy' before then…. Then he'd be stuck with parole violation and well, he wasn't sure what, if anything, he could get on Mozzie, since he didn't even have a name…

El was right. Catching Neal had become an obsession.

...NC

Sometime later: Nova Scotia:

"I'm not sure I know what you mean, sir. Your client won't be purchasing the Degas?" Victor Moreau challenged the intermediary, eye brow raised.

"Well, Mr. Moreau, it really is quite beautiful," Neal shook his head at the understatement. "It's just, well, my client decided that he would like to see the Dostoyevsky manuscript before making a decision. I do hope you thought to bring it?" the intermediary countered.

"I se. Well, Mr. Roquette, your client is in luck, as I anticipated his change of mind. I have the manuscript with me. If you would put on the gloves, I will bring it out for you to examine," Moreau lifted a smallish box gently onto the table and opened it with care. He set the cover aside before putting on the white cloth gloves for handling the old pages. With great care, victor lifted the small book out of its case, and passed it to the intermediary for him to authenticate.

As he waited, Victor could only smile in his traditionally sly manner. With the sale (or rather sales, as the intermediary had been sold the moment the Dostoyevsky had come out of the box) he and Robbie would be good to go for at least the remainder of their two 'off-the-grid' years. Then they would really start their lives. They would split up, of course. Somehow, it had never been a question.

During their free time, he and Robbie had spent a good lot of time discussing their respective futures. Robbie was dead set on London. He would fit in just fine there, Victor was sure. All the sights and sounds would do Robbie good. Wyoming was far too quiet. Robbie knew exactly what he wanted to do with the rest of his new life.

But Victor… something was still missing. Some key aspect of the life he had always imagined was seemingly unobtainable. He was…incomplete. "It's the thrill, the rush, of a good con," Robbie had said. "You know it Vic. You're still hung up on it. It'll eat away at you, till there is nothing left. If you go back to it though… it'll consume you,"

"I know, Rob, I know. I just…" And Victor would go back to dreaming about-

"Chicago? France? Really? Victor, I know you're smarter than that! Those are places that the Suit would expect you to go! The perfect places to GET CAUGHT! One of them isn't even outside of the country!"

"Exactly. I'd be right under their noses, Rob. Just enough of the thrill to keep my nose clean," At least that was what he had tried to convince himself. Sometimes, Victor wondered whether it would ever be enough.

And as he began the long journey back to the ranch in Wyoming - by driving! Rarely was beginning to not cover the ridiculous amount of driving Robbie had him do. Not that Robbie was the best choice to send out selling things. He didn't have the sophisticated air needed to sell to the outrageously rich - two articles lighter, Victor realized what had been plaguing him for so long. The consistent discontent with his life, no matter what name he lived it under, or where he was located.

Victor Moreau had everything, absolutely everything that he could have ever wanted; yet he wasn't happy with it. Never content with the way things were. Was he cursed, or something? Would he never be happy? He sighed heavily in the light of dusk.

All the choices that he had made in his life, and he had never once looked back. He was proud of most of the things that he had done. There was no debating the point. But he had started to look back. The past…just had a way of catching up with him, whether he liked it or not. And Victor was starting to realize just how well he understood that particular cliché.

Was it regret? All the ghosts of his Christmases past coming back to haunt him? The one thing he had always wanted the most had finally enslaved him. Total Control of his life, his actions; the freedom to do as a pleased. He could no longer sell any of his own artwork, or be recognized for it - Peter would know it was him. He couldn't go public with anything that he did. Pictures were too risky. He could be spotted.

And if he did go to Chicago, or France, would he find someone to love him, unconditionally, for who he was? Someone that he wouldn't have to hide his true self from? Someone that he could trust to keep his secrets? Did she even exist? Or would he be forced to hide his true self forever from everyone he came to care for?

It was on those long drives -neither he nor Rob trusted themselves enough to fly yet - that he tried to remind himself that he only had to wait six more years for Statue of Limitations to kick in. Then there was still his parole violation waiting for him….

The new names had never been real freedom; a glimpse maybe. Simply another escape from the life of running that he had led for so long. So long that he was starting forget what it had been like to simply live. He was growing old with the stress and the anxious paranoia that had kept him alive this long. His youth had been his innocence. Now, the years were catching up with him, his innocence had disappeared the moment the plane had blown apart, the love of his life on board.

Victor Moreau had conned a good many men out of a good many properties in his time. But, in the end, he was sure, he had only ever really conned one man. Himself. He was done with running. Screw the Feds. Once he was free to go, he would head to France and start over, the itch be damned.

...NC

The Strawberry blonde was sipping on her third Martini that night - dry, two olives. So many nights. So many spent alone. And then he had charmed his way into her heart, flashing his pearly white smile and his ocean after the storm blue eyes. Now. Now there was no charming smile, no mischievous twinkle, or eye brows raised enticingly. No more midnight swims, no more secrets, no more lies. No more surprise breakfasts or interrupted dinner dates. No more deceit. No more cons. No more Neal.

She had tried to convince herself that she wasn't surprised. That she had expected this from him, because he was first, and fore mostly, a con artist. Her opponent. All she'd convinced herself of was that she would make a horrible con. She couldn't even deceive herself.

Sara Ellis was stuck on Neal Caffrey. She was stuck on a man who had left her without a second thought. He had left nothing behind. No more Neal. Well, if that was the case, no more men. _Enough. I've had enough. _

How she wanted that Raphael back. She knew he didn't have it any longer, though. Peter had told her that he had stolen it for Kate. It had been her favourite. Had he ever loved her? Oh, Neal was a real Casanova - in more ways than one. She was the one who used men, not the other way around. Men did not _use_ Sara Ellis. She was in charge. She was in control. She wore the pants…figuratively.

Who was she trying to fool?

He had played her like he had played everyone else. Never again. Not on her life.


	4. Chapter 4

**A/N: Long wait. I know. it's unacceptable. I wrestled with a bit of writers block there for a while. Whether I wanted to elaborate on the 2 years solitary or not. I just couldn't get it onto paper. I didn't jive with the characters. Mozzie and Neal are not meant to be out in the middle of no where with no one but each other for years on end. Don't hate on the OC. I need her. I don't really pair Neal with anyone. I'm not real fond of any of his love interests in the show, but I needed someone. Also, there is a poll on my bio page. Check it out and vote please. **

**Sorry, again. **

**liebedero**

**I have all of Chapter 6, but not of 5 yet. Five is in my head. **

* * *

><p>Chapter Four<p>

When Victor woke up every morning, for two years, the sun on his face, and the sound of nothingness blaring in his ears, he was ready to go insane. _Every damn morning. So sick and tired of nothingness…_ The monotony had begun to drive both city clickers crazy by the first month. Neither of them made it the full two year. They both decided to bail, half a year early.

The moment that he stepped of the train, Victor felt the rush. The sights and sounds were glorious; the train clacking down the tracks behind him, the sheer and constant tone of freeway traffic, car horns, sirens, smoke, the sun glinting off of metallic structures. The city. Even the smell was welcome. Chicago was a good place, and, while he was happy with his choice, Victor couldn't help but wish it was Summer and not Winter. Cinching his collar closer with one hand, the other holding his brief case, Victor steeled himself against the wind.

He let go of his collar, grabbed the rest of his luggage, and headed down the steps into the sub area of the train station. One: hail a Cab. Two: find and rent a high rise apartment. Three: go shopping to replenish diminished wardrobe. Four: live.

With his patented smile plastered on his face, and the light returned to his eyes, Victor Moreau felt for the first time in a long time, that he was truly happy. He never had been one to dwell on his worries or anxieties, but then again, he hardly worried. He didn't do nervous; Victor Moreau was the epitome of suave, confident, collected, charming, and any number of adjectives that one cared to add.

For the first time in a long time, Victor Moreau was in his depth. The corner of his mouth tipped upwards ever so slightly. "The Hyatt Regency, driver - 151 East Wacker Drive,"

* * *

><p>The lighting was low, and the music was just the right volume, and if one looked closely, one could spot famous faces flashing by and in between the silhouettes of the mingling masses of that evening's gala.<p>

"Can I offer you a glass of champagne? " Victor asked, almost coyly, as he sauntered up to a petit brunette with luxurious locks. She turned, and looking at him appraisingly, glanced down at his outstretched hand, the flute of champagne held so slightly in his hand that she was sure, if he was bumped, it would slip from his fingers and shatter on the ground.

"No thank you, I have one of my own," And that was that. So she thought.

"Perhaps a glass of wine then, at a table, and a little stimulating conversation about how ridiculous most people here look tonight, and then a debate over the tendencies of Matisse versus that of Derain, and the decline of the fauvist movement?" He asked, flashing her a smile, moving closer as he did so.

Already, she had noticed, he had passed of the flute onto a server's tray, without missing a beat. He was certainly charming, but…

"Or perhaps you might refer the impressionists as I do?'

"Maybe we should talk about Van Gough. Better luck next time,"

"Hahaha… You don't give to cents about Van Gough. Degas on the other hand…" he stated, deliberately trailing off, praying that he really wasn't that far off his game.

"Alright. You're awfully persistent, I'll give you that. But will you hold up in conversation?" she raised an eye brow, and the tips of her mouth curved upward, if only slightly. He was interesting, and no harm came of spending an evening talking art with a handsome man.

She sat down, fully prepared to be disappointed, but his manners prevailed. "I don't believe that I introduced myself. Victor Moreau,"

"Denise Albricht,"

"Well, Denise, did I peg you right with fauvism the first time, or was I better of starting with the Impressionists?"

"I'd say it was a bit of both, but I'm not sure it's either,"

"Really? I don't think you'd be surprised to hear that I'm partial to Degas. However, I find enjoyment in most eras of art. And as I seem to have made several flaws in my assumptions with you, perhaps it'd be best if I stopped trying to guess and just outright gave up?"  
>"That's not a half bad idea," She let half a laugh slip. "Romanticism. I'm partial to Romanticism. John William Waterhouse? Quite Possibly my favourite artist, but you know, Degas is right up there with him,"<p>

"Aha! Not too far off then. I guess that there is hope for me yet,"

"And you were right. Van Gough is out of the question. While he has a certain intrigue about him…"

"He just doesn't deliver in the aesthetic department," Victor ended for her, both of them nodding in agreement. Finally, he thought to himself. Just another connection as a result of common interest. No… lies…. Right.

The two continued to chatter amiably, laughing, and enjoying company outside of the shallow guests that roamed about them. But Victor still adored every moment of it. It was the world he had always been meant to live in.

"Well, it's quarter to twelve, I really should get going," Denise stood.

"Of course, as should I," He followed her lead, and offered her his arm, leading her out to the coat check. She handed in her stub, as did he, and both tipped the man before heading towards the lobby. "Do you need to call the valet, or ?"

"I'll catch a cab, actually. That's how I came, so, I shou-"

"Then which way are you headed, because I took a cab too,"

"Oh, into town, to the east,"

"Near the Hyatt?" Victor inquired as he helped her on with her coat. Denise turned around, head angled to the side.

"Yes, actually. Near the Hyatt. Why?"

"Oh, because I live there. Convenience, you know. And I just happen to love the view from the 24th floor," She smiled at that.

"Yes, it is quite a view, Mr. Moreau,"

"Please, Victor,"

"Of course,"

He escorted her gently by the elbow to the coat check. She handed in her stub, and he was about to take her coat for her, but she gave a sideways look, and he backed off, handing in his own ticket and pulling on the pea coat over his suit jacket.

He didn't pass up the chance to hold the door open for her, however.

"Well, seems we can share a tab then," he commented as they stepped out into the frigid air. The thumbed a taxi, one immediately pulling over to the side as Victor and Denise made their way over to the cab. He held the door open for her and then slid in himself.

The vehicle pulled forward as he closed the door, as he heard the tail end of her directions.

"So…"I'll see you again sometime?" he inquired, brow raised. She deigned only to smirk.

"You never did say what you do Victor…?"

"I guess you could say I'm into…acquisition," she nodded, a half smile on her face, prodding for more. "Of the rare sort - art, antiques, as well as stock and holdings occasionally, if someone requires my expertise.

"A man of many talents, Victor?" She wasn't easily led on this one.

"And yourself?" he asked, directing the conversation away from his business prospects.

"Legal secretary, but I would prefer something a little more exciting sometimes,"

"Don't we all?" he grinned infectiously. "And what does your employer specialize in?"

"Defendant Case Law, why?" She asked as he 'ah' ed. "You in need of a lawyer?"

He shook his head. "No, not really, but if I did, one, I already have a trusted associate, and two, I wouldn't need one to begin with. I'm too good at what I do,"

"Acquisitions? Sure, I bet you have lots of legal trouble,"

"Well, this is my stop. I'll pick you up this Friday evening?" For a moment he entertained the idea that she might give him her address.

"How about the other way around, Mr. Moreau?"

"Victor," he stated, then, simply smiled, paid his tab, and was gone.


	5. Chapter 5

Life had never been easier for Victor. His 'business' was booming, he had his own pseudo-personal assistant/casual girlfriend, who didn't really care about his shady practices, much less his penchant to bring home the occasional 'other woman'.

He was high on life, and hadn't even begun to run low on fuel.

It was Summer now, and the bustling city below him was full of life, and energy. He turned up his stereo system as he strode about his penthouse kitchen. An omelet was in order. He had always loved cooking, having had to learn from a young age, he had always figured that, if he was going to cook for himself, he might as well enjoy it.

Around the corner from the kitchen was the veranda, and just beside the French doors were his easel, and a drying canvas from the night before. He felt inspired, invigorated, energized.

For the first time in a long time, Victor - Neal - felt _alive_. He was unafraid of the future, looking forward to what it would bring even. He had an unbreakable routine down now. He would make himself breakfast (sometimes Denise too) and then he would head to the complex's pool for his hour and a half's worth of laps, shower, and dress for 'work'. But that part was only on Fridays. He had to keep in practice, and what better way to do so than playing the field. On the other side of town, of course. 3-5 wallets a day, and every other month, he would break into his own bank account, just to make sure.

He didn't want to lose his knack for it.

The charm, that he didn't worry about. The rest of the time, he spent mainly working with the Art Museum. Their number one patron of the arts. He only had one rule. No pictures, especially none with flash. His excuse? Mild photophobia. So he wore sunglasses everywhere, and the occasional fedora, when he couldn't resist.

Next was a trip to the park, maybe some photography or location scouting around the city, followed by lunch with Denise, and other associates he had made acquaintance with from the Museum. Fairly often he received phone updates on the stocks and the market, which he was content to work from afar.

True, he missed New York, but his lovely lady was a dangerous one for him still, if not for the rest of his life.

The last bit of routine happened at four o'clock, every third Wednesday. Check the storage facility. There were still holdings, physical, whose worth he had yet to gage, or even decide what to do with. He kept the Degas in the far corner. If it wasn't a hot item, he'd have kept it in his penthouse. Instead, he limited himself to one of the three Monet's. Occasionally he would sell one or two pieces off - those that were less than obvious - to a private collection.

The second week that he had been in Chicago, he had done some scouting, looked for familiar faces, signs of anyone who might know him. The field was fairly clear, but he checked again every other month, putting out feelers for other cons, as well as any FBI traces. But he didn't live in paranoia. Robbie, who had made straight for London after he crossed the border into Canada, would have said that he was being too obvious still, much to much in the public eye.

But that was the idea. Victor Moreau was a normal rich guy playboy with loose morals, expensive taste, and an old school fashion sense.

Victor wouldn't have heard a word he said.

His evenings were spent either eating out with Denise or others, maybe a trip to the Theatre for a stage show, or the Symphony, or an Operetta. Once, he even took Denise to a full opera.

She still worked full time for the defense attorney, but a good portion of his time was spent treating her either by taking her out, or cooking dinner for her.

They even occasionally shopped together, something that the internally masculine part of him was a little at odds with, but he couldn't resist the antique cufflinks, and tie bars, and hats… For their 'one month' she had bought him a fedora, navy blue with a light grey pinstripe. She had told him that he should decide what they should do, and he had plain and simple told her to take him to the shop where she had bought it before he would even mention the thought of a restaurant. She had only laughed.

The rest of his considerable free time was spent creating his art. There was a different feel to it now. New York hadn't any influence over his Chicago work. It was a different sort of feel, less old time, and more modern, with that hint of Midwestern hospitality. Chicago wasn't as aloof a lady as New York, but Vic loved her less.

He used more blues, and greys, less of the tans and maroons. It was a different feel, and it showed. It had been a long time since Vic had the freedom to paint what he wanted. Too much of his career was spent emulating the best of the Egyptian artists - copycatting was everything. But he did keep in practice, with his near photographic memory when it came to art, and all the time he spent at the Chicago Museum, his collection was not without its share of forgeries.

The best ones he saved…just in case. The others he painted over. Originals usually.

He painted Denise more than once. Different styles, different settings.

Once or twice the Neal in him would make him cocky. Painting a degas styled work and sending it in anonymously to the Art Museum after aging it appropriately. All the forgeries of that style were based off of rumors. The best lies were laid in facts, even if the facts were fabricated at some point or another.

He got away with it twice before he discovered the hints of piqued FBI interest.

Victor had squashed Neal down then.

Victor was a business man, Neal was the con. Halden had been the Robin Hood, Devore the rich man. So many aliases, so many different personalities, trying to quash the deepest one. The dreamer below. But _he_ had bled into Neal, so very easily. They were very nearly one in the same. Neal and the Dreamer. The young man whose stolen innocence had led him to his heart and his home. New York.

Neal was all that was left of that boy now, and even Neal was beginning to fade.

He had to make believe.

Believe in the lie, and make it real.

Neal had been the best lie of all of them. Neal and the dreamer were inseparable. The dreamer was the lie.

It was nights like those that he painted with black, and a shocking blue.

He had always associated Neal with that flashy shade.

Victor was plumb.

Halden had been maroon.

Devore was pastels - lavender or sage.

The dreamer wore white, with blue jeans. None of the others wore blue jeans. Neal did, occasionally, but then the dreamer never wore custom tailored suits, with fedoras and 300 dollar ties either.

The dreamer was the child. The lost boy.

Neal was the goal.

The others were lies.

Victor was perhaps the worst lie of them all.

Why? Victor had a birth certificate.

* * *

><p>It was Summer again. Four years. Short years that had breezed by like nothing.<p>

Denise was smiled at him in the moonlight, and Vic couldn't help but reciprocate it. He had kept telling himself to think with his head, but he hadn't managed it. In trust, the had missed intimacy. The feeling of unconditional love. He supposed that it stemmed from Kate, but it had been years, and he had finally moved on. With Sara everything but the lust - and respect for their mutual intelligence levels - had occurred under a web of deceit. Lies fed the distance that grew between them and in the end, his betrayal had shattered any of the relationships he'd had left, save Moz-Robbie. He'd avoided any contact with Alex - it was too risky for them to use her as a fence now. The feds would undoubtedly be watching her for any hints of contact with him. But once the statute of limitations was up…

"What's up?" Denise propped herself up on an arm, the other splayed over the pillows, her face illuminated. "You seem…distracted, preoccupied,"

"Just thinking,"

"As per the usual," she grinned coyly.

"After the dedication is over, we should go on a trip. Somewhere. Or maybe even before. Somewhere like… Germany... or that Caribbean. I don't know. Maybe London?"

"Three very different place there babe,"

"Yeah, I know," he couldn't look at her.

"And what about the dedication? I thought you didn't want to miss it…"

"I don't' know. We don't have to go…really,"

"What happened to '_I won't miss it for the world Denni! It's my dedication! I've got to be there!'_ hmm?" Vic rolled his eyes at her, and the laughed, shutting his eyes. The pillow whapped him in the face unceremoniously.

"You're making fun of me, but that is exactly what you sounded like - an eight year old who just lost his first tooth!" He only shook his head, still chuckling at her impression of him. "Seriously now. You want to go. I know you do. What's changed? I can see it in your eyes. You keep saying that it doesn't matter but I _know_ that you want to go. So why not now? What's different babe?"

"It's just…it's hard for me to explain. Really. It's just hard. Hard for me,"

"Look. We both know that I have no reservations about you being legitimate. You're probably some sort of white collar criminal or something, what with all your business investments and stock trading, but that isn't the point. Just… tell me what you can,"

"It's hard to, I don't know, change my lifestyle I guess?" he rolled onto his back and into the moonlight, the silk sheets sliding effortlessly around their figures. "I used to do anything to be in the spotlight, and it ruined my life. Now… I've started over. New city, new faces. And I want to be better. A better person than I was before. Or better at hiding I guess. This is a new start for me. A chance to realize mistakes before I make them," he shrugged. "Reign in my impulses,"

"You? Control your impulsive nature? Impossible. If this is good for you, I can't imagine how impulsive you must have been before," he couldn't help but nod in agreement. "But you are who you are. You can try and change your ways, and I guess that's admirable, but you can't change you," There was a moment of silence. "Go to the dedication, Vic. It's all you've talked about for days,"

"Can we just forget it? Please? So…Jamaica, London or Germany? "

A little while later, silence fell and soon he could hear Denise's light breaths. He lay awake, bright eyes glinting as the city light endured and his mind drove in ceaseless circles, indicative of another sleepless night, filled with Crates stamped with swastikas and an exhibition at the Museum. His exhibition.

Of Nazi treasure.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So. There I leave you. I now have the rest of the story planned out. You're going to be seeing Peter and El again very soon, and after that Mozzie. I won't be introducing any other new characters. I got good feedback about the short time we had with Denise last chapter. Mainly I just need someone to play Neal off of. And we all know that he could not be able to keep from finding someone. He's too much of a romantic at heart. **

**I hope she doesn't bother any of you, because I actually like her. **

**liebedero**


	6. Chapter 6

Chapter Six:

"Not another one Peter!" El sighed.

"Just one more hun, I promise," he muttered without turning to face her, on hand outstretched in a gesture, begging for her acquiescence. Peter was scanning the screen of his TV, looking for the tell-tale smile and bright blue eyes, sparkling with laughter. It was the third or fourth televised gallery opening in the past three months and the date for the Statue of Limitation was unstable. If anything were to show up…

"_Unfortunately our sponsor for this evening, Mr. Moreau, has just flown out to Germany on business so-"_

Peter had been alert since the announcer had said the name Moreau. It was so tantalizing…he couldn't have been that cocky…no…

"_- he has kindly sent us a piece he requested we read:_

_ Ladies and Gentlemen, thank you all for being here this evening. The new Gallery opening this evening, I'm sure, will intrigue and fascinate you. The pieces are the most beautiful of all my collection, though not, perhaps, the most treasured. Among them are a Monet, a Rembrandt, but who painted a piece should never determine its grandeur. _

_ My most treasured piece will be temporarily on display, the crown jewel in my eyes. An anonymous oils pastel of a man in a filed, gazing out at the towing stone turrets in the distance. It's place in my heart cannot be challenged, because it reminds me of myself. I always dreamed big. I still do. And those dreams haven't always come to fruition. But once, some friends of mine taught me that I could be happy where I was with what I had. Needless to say, I didn't listen very well, or I wouldn't be where I am today, but I haven't forgotten that lesson, and I never will. _

_ Today, I dedicate this gallery to them. May I present, the Burke Gallery,"_

The curtains opened and the announcer stepped aside as the crowd clapped politely.

The Burke household was in utter silence.

Peter had never been so happy in his life to have a tape recorder. The playback was still unbelievable, even to him, the coincidence too good to be true. Only one question remained.

Who the hell was Victor Moreau.

* * *

><p>Vic's cell rang.<p>

"Do you need to take that?" Robbie asked sounding slightly irked. He had welcomed Vic and Denni into his …safe house… and that was under confidence. He was still paranoid as ever and nothing was going to change that. Victor nodded in the negative.

"I'll just let it ring. If it's important, they'll leave a message," A moment later the message tune rang.

"If you'll excuse me," he stood and strode from the room.

"Do you mind Robbie, where's the bathroom?" Denise asked.

"Oh, no problem, it's right through that door, and then down that hall at the third door to the right. She stood and went down the hall and then waited and doubled back.

"This is bad,"

"What's bad mon frère?"

"It was Peter, Moz,. Peter,"

"That's for the love of Emerson, Neal, what did you do?"

"Listen – 'Hello Mr. Moreau, my name is Peter Burke, I'm with the FBI, and I noticed that you recently donated your art collection to the Chicago Art Museum. I've got some questions for you concerning how you came about it. If you wouldn't mind contacting me as soon as possible…' – I donated my extra art as a private gallery. I dedicated it to them. The Burke Gallery. I wasn't even there Moz! He thinks I bought the art from myself. He suspects it, Moz, I know he does,"

"Why'd you do a stupid thing like that, Neal? That uncharacteristic generosity is going to get you locked up for parole violation at best, and you were supposed to start selling stuff so we could be sure that the Statute of Limitations would cover us. Why'd ya do it Neal? Why risk everything we worked so hard for?"Mozzie threw his hands up in the air, exasperated. "You have forever soiled a pure birth certificate! The one with your name on it! Victor Moreau, Neal. That was a clean name! Now you've tied Caffrey to Moreau, and sent a message to Peter in blinking red lights that says 'Come and arrest me for betraying your ill placed trust!'"

"Calm down Moz, I can get out of it. There aren't any pictures of me. No way to securely connect Caffrey and Moreau,"

"You mean connect you then to you now?"

"Semantics. But that isn't the point. If I call him he'll recognize my voice. I'll use a secure email. All my current business dealings are legitimate, so Moreau is still concrete. The only way to play it is at a distance. I'd need a middle man. Someone completely out of the loop, who will believe what I say – that I bought the art from someone in a deal I couldn't resist,"

"Yeah that someone is Neal Caffrey and when they start showing pictures our clean middleman gets ideas,"

"We pay him good or create another solid alias for me, without any photo evidence and frame someone else," Neal offered up.

"That's all fine and dandy, but you never answered my question," Silence led the expectation

"Why did you dedicate it to them?" More silence, then…

"My attempt at an apology,"

"Are you admitting to the most incriminating emotion expressly forbidden in all con men? Guilt! You! Neal Caffrey feels ashamed? If that's the case, you've fallen far mon frère,"

"So my conscience kicked in a little late, alright?"

"And at the worst possible time! Murphy's law, man, there is no denying it is a curse on our kind!" Mozzie objected.

"Yeah, I know Moz. So who are we going to get?"

"Maybe we should ask your new girlfriend?"

* * *

><p>She sat at the table, both 'Mozzie' and 'Neal' (she still thought of them as Robbie and Vic) standing over her, the former glaring, her pseudo boyfriend blank faced. They had caught her listening and Robbie, obviously a casualty of paranoia, was less than happy.<p>

"Look, you planned on telling me anyways, so this way, I already know," She rationalized.

"Yeah, but we might have censored some things, you know, for your own good," the short, balding man retorted in an anxious manner.

"Denni, will you help me?" Neal asked her, and she knew he was trying to play her feelings. They had never gotten too very close, and that was a good thing, she surmised. Till now, she supposed, they'd been playing the plausible deniability card on her, just in case.

"I'll help, but I want to know the details, and, well, you could cut me in,"

"Done,"

It had been as simple as that. She wasn't going to say no (money was just a plus) and they couldn't afford for her to flip on them to the feds. So she said yes. And the games began.

* * *

><p>Peter walked through the doors of Moreau's acquisitions headquarters and up to a desk where, unsurprisingly, a pretty young woman sat. She was brunette with large dark eyes and tanned skin, and on her desk was a plaque reading the name Denise Albricht, Secretary. "Hi there, Denise," He held up his badge. "I'm Agent Peter Burke, FBI. I'm here to speak with Mr. Moreau. Can you arrange that for me?" The pretty girl looked up at him.<p>

"Unfortunately he isn't in right now and won't be for some time. You've caught him on his half day. It changes every week. Mr. Moreau doesn't believe in a set routine. Variety is the spice of life. I will, however, be sure to let him know that you were in. I can even send him an email right now, if you'd like," She waited expectantly.

"Email?" Peter asked cautiously.

"Yes. It's more discrete, so as to avoid being rude around customers. My employer isn't a fan of texting, and so he refuses to communicate in such a way. Email is his preferred form of contact. Would you care to send him one? "

Peter hefted a breath. "Can you set me up with an appointment? We think that he may inadvertently know something about some rather priceless art that was stolen from a recovered U-boat in New York a couple years back. The culprit is thought to be a master forger and con artist who goes by the name Neal Caffrey. Here's my card. If you could give it to him when you set up an appointment..."

She took it from his hand and read it over accordingly, which was more than he had expected, and then brought up a calendar on the computer screen to her right – she had three of them – and actually added him in for a tentative appointment.

"I'll confirm with you through the telephone contact you've left when I've spoken with Victor,"

At her use of her boss' first name, Peter perked up. "Victor, eh?" She blushed.

"Yes, Victor. We were friends before we were employer and employee. Now if you'd excuse me, I do have some forms to attend to. This is not my only job,"

"Really? What else do you do?"

"I'm a legal secretary, Agent Burke," She answered him matter-of-factly.

"Oh, well, thank you for your time, Ms. Albricht," Peter turned away from her and began to walk back down the hall, but something was niggling in the back of his head.

_We were friends before we were employer and employee._

She was brunette, she had a Degas themed desk calendar.

She could be his type.

Peter pulled out his phone and pressed the speed dial. It rang for a moment before he heard Diana's familiar tones.

"_Yeah boss?" _

"Hey Di, can you get me a workup on a Denise Albricht. I want to know everything she's been doing since Neal ran, especially the past year. I want to know how long she's known this Moreau, and when she started working for him,"

"_Sure thing boss, I'm on it,"_

If there was one thing he knew about Neal, it was that he couldn't resist a pretty face, and that if he got attached, it wasn't a hard angle to work. He swallowed his guilt. If Denise's heart got caught in the crossfire, he could handle it if she were ignorant of Neal's crimes. If not, then so be it.

If Neal was involved, then Peter would take him down, no matter the cost. As he hailed the cab to his FBI issued hotel, he thought of El's face, and he thought of Neal's. Since everything had happened, he had tried his hardest not to remember how much his former friend had been a part of him, how his betrayal had been like the loss of a limb.

The conversation that he had had with El before he left for Chicago came flooding back to mind.

"_Peter, please, if you find him, don't let your personal emotions get in the way of doing what's right. He betrayed you but we don't know everything. We never have and you know that. Please. Statute of Limitations covers him, don't bring up unnecessary hurts. I know how much he still means to you. Otherwise you wouldn't be on his case like you are. You're mad because he was doing so well. You're mad because you believe in him, and he proved you wrong. You're mad at yourself for not seeing it, for not preventing it. You're mad at yourself for not being able to have kept him on the straight and narrow,"_

"_El, I just…it slays me that he left. I thought…I really, really thought that he'd changed,"_

"_People don't change, Peter, they evolve and grow. But that takes time and patience. Neal had multiple forces acting on him. Mozzie, other friends that we don't know about. Peter, he was a like a trapped animal. When they are afraid, they run, irrational. They make bad choices and they often end up dead. Don't let that be Neal, hun. Please, don't let it be Neal,"_

"_I can't go easy on him, El, without retribution from the Bureau. And I don't want to. He needs to be punished accordingly. He needs to get what he deserves. If he doesn't receive proper punishment, then who's to say that he won't try something again? He'll never learn El, if he's rewarded for doing something wrong. It's like when we housetrained Satchmo…" El brought a hand to her husband's cheek, rubbing it with her thumb lovingly. _

"_Alright Obi-Wan. I get it. You're disappointed for him, not in him,"_

"_Star Wars, really?"_

"_Look. There was good in Darth Vader, and Neal a lot less evil than he was. It isn't as though he's committing genocide or anything. He's a thief, but not evil,"_

"_I'll be sure to remember that. Does this make you Amidala, because that would be awk-ward," He smiled, and she smiled back. It was the first time he'd made a real joke during a discussion about Neal, and she'd even got a chuckle out of him. _

He saw Neal's smile in his head, but it was marred by the Neal he'd seen occasionally in passing. The Neal whose smile fell when he thought no one was looking. The mask, the façade. The greatest con of them all.

If he caught Neal, Peter wasn't sure whether he'd end up being the father figure that El had made him out to be. If he caught Neal, Peter didn't know what he'd do at all.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: So here you go. I've got it back up and started again. It helped that I found some hand written stuff with Peter and El that I'd forgotten about so I typed that up. Also: **

**A REQUEST:**

**Please, if you know what happened to LStuds and the amazing young!Neal story, Damage Control, please, please tell me. I really loved it, it was my guilty pleasure and I reread it like 3 times. I was looking to do so again, but It's jsut gone and I'm horribly unhappy. If anyone can put me in contact with LStuds, I'll write you into a chapter, somehow, or give you an honourable mention. **

**Also: PETER NO I LOVE YOU DON'T GO. **


	7. Chapter 7

Chapter 7

"He wants a meeting," Denise watched as Vic took a deep breath, blinking, and ran a hand over his face.

"I can't do it, but I can't jeopardize my identity," He turned to Robbie.

"We can hold off just long enough that he gets curious. Hire a man to go sleep in your apartment for the night, send in Denni to make it look real. He barges in in the morning and our actor follows his script. Tired, cranky, you know. Not a morning person. Throw him off target," Exasperated, Vic leaned his hands on the chair back.

"And where are we going to find this stand in?"

"Oh, I know a down on his luck thespian that will happily learn the part for the right price. He specializes in ad-lib based on a guided script, if you know what I mean. He fits the Moreau bill too, dark hair, dark eyes. You know,"

"Great, let's set it up,"

Peter sighed unhappily. It was the second time that his meeting with Moreau had been bumped back, and he was starting to get suspicious. Diana had been by. Just like El, her advice was always the kick he needed.

It was time to make progress of his own.

He lifted his hand and knocked on the door. The badge had gotten him to the penthouse, but only the man inside would get him any farther. A thump resounded from the other side, and Peter listened intently for the sound of footsteps pattering towards him. The door swung open after a moment and…

Before him stood a bedraggled man of sculpted figure and shaggy dark hair. He held his breath. The man looked up and brown eyes met Peter's. A crooked nose and more scruff than Neal had favoured met his gaze. He let out his breath.

"What?" The voice of the man that Peter assumed could only be Victor Moreau was deeper than Neal's, a bit more gruff, and very obviously not pleased to be awoken so early.

"I'm Agent Peter Burke, and I've been trying to get a hold of you regarding your recent donation to the Museum,"

"Could you have come any earlier?" Moreau trudged inside, beckoning Peter to join him. The room was open, with no walls separating the rooms. Peter scanned the interior. On a bed of silver grey sheets, He noticed another head of dark hair. Denise was more than just friends then. Hardly surprising. Moreau had stopped at a breakfast bar and was pouring himself a glass of juice.

"We've been playing phone tag. I simply wanted the chance to meet in person, get out of your hair. I'm sure I've been a nuisance to try and fit into your schedule, and I want this over and done with as much as you. I've been tracking Caffrey since he first came onto our radar over two decades ago. Have you got any information for me?" Peter slid the photo across the granite countertop. Moreau gazed at it intently for a moment, and then shook his head.

"I've never seen the guy before. I'll tell you what I know, but it's not much, and I've never heard the name Neal Caffrey before. A while ago, almost, what, six, seven years maybe? I was making my way up in life in Seattle. I like art. Anyway, and I had some money and a man I knew told me about this, well…let's just call it a blowout sale. I went to the location. It was a telephone booth, and the phone was ringing. I picked it up. We made a deal, but I never got his name. I was told, that, in seven years I should donate the pieces I would find on the list with the art, and all the information about the dedication. The whole speech actually. I was paid well for it, and, as a settlement, was given several pieces on the aside that I could keep to do with as I pleased. I got to choose which ones. It was a good deal, and I took it. I haven't had contact with the guy since then," Moreau fingered the photo, then slid it back across to Peter. "That's all I've got. If the pieces I kept in my private collection are contraband, then, by all means, you can confiscate them. I'm legitimate now, and I haven't dabbled since that phone call,"

Peter sighed, pocketing the photograph.

"No. No, it's not much. But then, he always was good. I guess I just underestimated him. Thank you…for your time. I'm, a, sorry I had to wake you up so early. I'm going to have some of my people come by and take a look at the pieces you mentioned, if that's alright," Moreau shrugged.

"I'm here right now. We might as well get this over with,"

"I don't know El," Peter ran his hands down his wife's shoulders, lent into her embrace. "Moreau was there. He's notoriously private, and he didn't offer any other information about himself, but he fit the description. He was there with Denise. He gave us everything, even the art. I just…it felt like Neal in there, El. It felt like his ghost was watching over my shoulder. I could see him in that apartment, sitting at the dining table drinking wine as clear as if it was in June's loft. It's him. It's got to be him, El, and I have nothing. Not one thing, to prove it,"

"Maybe it's best this way, Peter. I think…I think it's time. To give up the ghost. You said it yourself. He's haunting you. You need to let it go. Seven years ago, Neal set up this apology to you. And I think it's the best that you're ever going to get. Don't let a ghost run your life,"

Peter didn't say anything for a long, long time.

Epilogue

It had been three years since the Dediction. He'd kept tabs on the man he'd come to consider family from the very beginning, and so when he had heard that Elizabeth was pregnant, he'd immediately set up a trust fund for the child, set to be accessible to the Burkes upon his or her eighteenth birthday. They'd receive a letter of notification with access codes and everything.

He hoped that they wouldn't mind.

Neal knew that while Peter still suspected that he and Vic were one in the same, there was no proof linking them. And despite that, Peter had still given up the chase.

Neal owed his life to Peter, and he'd never jeopardize the precious remains of what was once a close friendship.

He peered through the window of the Burke house subtly. Peter was holding his son, cooing at him awkwardly, with the inelegance of a new father. Neal smiled, then walked away.

Out of the corner of his eye, Peter caught the shock of dark hair, the flutter of a coattail, at the window. He turned, called out.

"Neal! Neal!" He called out, but the man didn't look back, kept walking. "We named him Matt!" The figure paused slightly, but didn't stop. Peter sighed, and watched till the man turned the corner, then went back inside. He'd long ended his obsession with the criminal, but not the man.

The End?

**A/N: I am so very sorry that this took so long. I have no excuse except lack of muse. If you want a sequel, you're really going to have to beg….and probably wait too. I'm working on a kid!Neal story. But it's very different from any I've read so far, so please don't disregard it when I start posting. I want to focus on his father and his past life, and I think it would be an interesting angle with him as a child, and not a teen. **

**Thanks so much for all of the support and love that this story has gotten. I know that there were some pretty big gaps in between, but muse is a fickle thing and you stuck with me, so thank you. **


	8. NOTICE

Just a notice - I'm going to be cross posting _Histories_ over at AO3 under the penname steelneena. I really should think about going through and rewriting/editing sections, but I'm just too lazy and I finished this story too recently. It was so hard to post those final chapters, I can't even think about touching it right now. But I will be cross posting. I am also still writing the child!Neal fic, but I really want to incorporate as much of what we now know about Neal into the story.

It'll be a long while, that's for certain.

Thank you for all enjoying this story, you've no idea how much it means to me that I even was able to finish it, and it's all because of your support.


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